Grandfather
by Simon920
Summary: Fifteen year old Dick Grayson's grandfather is dying in Europe, the boy runs away to be there. Implied slash, though nothing at all graphic.


**Grandfather**

Bruce was tired when he finally managed to walk through the front  
door of the Manor. It had been along day at the office and had been  
made longer by traffic tie-ups from the city to the estate. At the  
moment all he could think of was a hot shower, a decent dinner and a  
few hours to unwind before he would take up the cape for another  
night's work.

It wasn't going to happen, not right now, anyway.

As he took off his overcoat and placed his attaché beside the hall  
table, Alfred approached him, silently and with as much deference as  
ever.

"Forgive me, sir, but I'm afraid that there may be something of a  
problem." He was holding apiece of paper, a page from a notebook from  
the looks of it, torn out of a spiral binder. The handwriting on it  
was unmistakably Dick's.

**_"I've got to deal with some family stuff. Don't worry, I'm OK. Will  
call later._**

**_D"_**

"The school telephoned to inform me that he was absent from his  
classes today and one of the small bags is missing from the luggage  
closet. I fear that he's gone off, sir."

Oh, great, just what he needed tonight.

His family, well that would have to be either his Aunt and Uncle in  
Michigan or some relatives he had over in Europe. Most likely it  
would involve the European contingent since Dick hated the ones in  
the US. They were the ones who had refused to take him in after the  
murders, saying that, really they just had no room at all. They had  
even added that the poor boy would likely be happier without them,  
what with his Aunt and his mother looking so much alike, such a  
constant reminder. He would be better off with—well, someone else,  
please.

When news of the trust fund had come to light, they had decided that  
it was all water under the bridge and attempted to reestablish  
contact. Dick would have none of it.

The family he still had in Romania, though, were different. Dick  
adored his Grandfather, wishing to go to him, begging the social  
workers to contact him, insisting that Papa (as Dick always called  
him) would come for him or have him flown over. When he had been  
caught after running away from the first foster family he'd been  
placed with, he was on his way to the airport.

He had been refused, the pleas of a ten year old ignored. Social  
Services was unwilling to send a minor into what was then a communist  
country, no matter what the circumstances. The Grandfather was only  
made aware of the loss of his son and daughter-in –law, along Dick's  
older brother, when Bruce had informed the man himself. That Bruce  
and the grandfather were in regular touch was something that had been  
kept from Dick. Frankly Bruce was afraid that the boy he had come to  
love might decide to leave him and resettle with the old man in the  
small village he had lived in all his life. Knowing the reality of  
his life and its limitations, the Grandfather had agreed quickly that  
Richard would be better off with his new guardian. The boy had been  
permitted back at least once a year for a visit, usually either  
during the summer break or over the Christmas holidays. He would  
return quiet and sad, almost in what could be termed a clinical  
depression for a week or two until he would snap himself out of it.  
It troubled Bruce to see and Alfred would do anything he could think  
of to cheer the youngster, usually to no avail.

These were parts of his old life that he refused to give up or make  
any attempt to forget or put behind him, his Grandfather being one of  
them. When Bruce had once asked if he would like to move back, he had  
though about the possibility and then shaken his head saying that  
there wasn't much for him there and he had come to like life in the  
States too much to leave permanently. He continued to visit the old  
man when he could, wrote him frequent letters and called whenever he  
could get through on the shaky Romanian phone system.

It was a part of his life he shared with almost no one. None of his  
friends knew about the visits or the calls or letters. When asked  
where he had spent Christmas, he would usually make up a story about  
having gone skiing. Almost none of them knew where he had been born  
or about his life with the circus. Bruce himself had only recently  
learned from the Grandfather that Richard (or the Romanian  
equivalent, as he was called by the old man) had been recruited by  
the State's Sports machine, wanting to train him for that country's  
Olympic team. The youngster had refused, preferring the life in the  
circus with his family. There had been an unmistakable gleam in the  
cloudy eyes when he had murmured, "An Olympic Champion, my own  
grandson. He would have won. You know that he would have. He would  
have been the best they had ever seen."

"All right, lets start a check of the airports. If he's headed to  
Europe, he'll have needed his passport. There should be a record. If,  
by some chance he's headed to the American relatives, we may be able  
to intercept him one way or another. Are all the cars and bikes  
accounted for in the garage?"

"Well, actually, sir the large motorcycle is gone. I've taken the  
liberty of tracing it, sir. He seems to be headed east."

Not bothering to change he headed down to the cave, booting up the  
computers and honing in on the now still signal. The airport. Europe.  
Fine.

Next he pulled up the flight schedules, seeing what was headed  
directly to Bucharest. Nothing tonight. Fine, what was going anywhere  
close by? There was a flight to Belgrade, Yugoslavia that had just  
left. Damn. That would get him on the ground by early afternoon,  
local time. He could either hop a train or rent a car, or perhaps  
take a hopper flight and be at his Grandfather's in time for a late  
dinner.

Right. That was likely where he was headed.

He hit the secure search engine again. Passenger manifests were  
closed, of course, but that wasn't a problem. Yes, there he was.

The question was why. What had happened to make Dick bolt without a  
word? Picking up the secure phone, he dialed the numbers and was  
relieved to finally hear the ringing at the other end. After at least  
ten rings, a woman's voice answered, in Romanian. Damn. "Nicos?"  
Bruce didn't speak Romanian; Dick had always handled the translating  
chores when they were needed at home. At other times, he had used one  
of his employees who could speak the language.. A babble assaulted  
his ear along with crying. "Ach, Nicos…Nicos…" Well, obviously,  
something was wrong with Dick's grandfather, Dick had somehow found  
out and was now on his way there to offer whatever help or support  
that he could.

"Alfred, please make sure that the plane is ready to leave within  
half an hour. I'll be going to Bucharest then renting a car. Make the  
arrangements."

"Of course, sir."

The next call was to Oracle. "Find out what you can about his  
grandfather's condition then get back to me. You have the current  
cell number?" It was changed every two weeks as a precaution. "Good."

Going upstairs to change his clothes, he realized that Dick would  
likely be furious about his intruding into the private side of his  
life but didn't care. The boy was still only fifteen. He shouldn't be  
alone.

Everything prepared, ten minutes later he left the front door,  
enroute to the airport.

Airborne the reports came into the plane.

The Grandfather (as Bruce always thought of him, rather than by his  
name) had suffered a heart attack the day before, evidently the third  
one he'd had in the last two years. He had previously traveled to  
Paris and Vienna for treatment, but there was little that could be  
done. He was simply too old and frail to chance a transplant or any  
other major invasive surgery. What could be done with drugs and  
therapy had been. The bills had been forwarded to Dick who had paid  
them himself without a word to anyone.

His prognosis was poor.

The last attack had occurred at his home and he had lain, unnoticed,  
until the housekeeper had arrived the next morning. After calling the  
ambulance, she had called Dick.

The probable loss of his grandfather would devastate Dick and Bruce  
was worried about just what his reaction might be. The old man was  
the last blood relative to whom he felt any connection. This could  
become a real problem. It had taken years for Dick to really come to  
terms with his family's murders; this could seriously set him back.

The fear he had never voiced was the possibility that Dick might  
decide to actually move back to Europe in some sort of attempt to  
reestablish contact with his past. The boy held dual citizenship  
because of his parents—both American and Romanian. Legally, he would  
have to declare allegiance to either one or the other when he was  
eighteen. If he chose to go with the Romanian nationality, well,  
Bruce didn't want to think what that would mean to the two of them,  
let alone the impact it would have on Dick's future.

Dick was only vaguely aware of the ramifications himself, but as he  
grew older and more sophisticated he would understand.

Bruce was worried.

Sure, he could probably stop him from making any kind of a jump until  
he was of age, but short of keeping him under lock and key, he  
wouldn't be able to prevent him from doing pretty much whatever he  
wanted.

All this was coupled with the fact that he was smart, had access to  
money, both his and Bruce's, had connections and friends all over the  
world and was as headstrong as any teenager had ever been, complete  
with the resources to back it up.

If he took it into his head to do something, the chances were that he  
would do it and the consequences be damned. But what, in the name of  
God was he going to do?

* * *

Eight hours later the plane had touched down in Bucharest, the  
waiting rental car was engaged and he was headed to the hospital  
where the Grandfather had been taken. In another ninety minutes he  
was walking down the corridor toward the cardiac wing. It was a small  
hospital, not surprisingly, but seemed clean and fairly efficiently  
run. Asking at the front desk for the man by name he was directed to  
a room number. When he didn't understand, the nurse wrote the number  
on a piece of paper then got up and walked him down the hall a ways,  
pointing the room out to him.

The door was open; there was a single bed. Dick was sitting in a  
straight chair beside it, reading, in Romanian, to the old man lying  
there.

Looking up at the movement in the doorway he didn't seem surprised at  
all. Glancing down and seeing that he seemed to be asleep, Dick rose  
and quietly walked out to the corridor.

"You didn't have to come. I told you that I'd call."

"How is he?"

"Dying." The single word was flat, matter of fact, accepting.

"Is there any…"

"No."

"Where are you staying? Have you slept?"

"They let me sleep in one of the empty rooms. The nurses bring me  
food. They're nice about my being here." He looked tired, exhausted,  
worn out and almost at the end of his strength. Bruce knew that the  
boy would hold on as long as he had to, but then he would need the  
help, the support and the shoulder to lean on. That was why he had  
flown half way around the world.

"We've been talking, when he's awake enough. He's been telling me  
about my parents, how they met, the things they liked. He said that  
he wasn't able to go to the wedding because it was in the States.  
He's been telling me about the rest of the family. I'd never really  
thought why it was so small. I guess that I either didn't care or  
knew the answer anyway."

He looked out the window at the end of the hallway.  
Expressionless. "It was Hitler. Can you believe that? He killed the  
gypsies along with the Jews and the gays and whoever else caught his  
fancy. Papa said that all of his family were killed, that he was the  
only survivor. He said that he was ten when he was liberated from the  
camp."

He looked at Bruce and gave a small shrug. "I didn't know that. The  
same age I was when my parents were killed. He said that was one  
reason he's always felt close to me." He looked at the floor. "Maybe  
that's why I always felt so close to him. He just understood."

They heard an indistinct sound from the room.

Dick went back inside, speaking quietly and soothingly to the old  
man, holding his hand and leaning over so that the man wouldn't have  
to strain to see. Watching from the doorway, Bruce was touched by the  
gentleness, the concern that he saw on the young man's face and in  
the way he held the skeletal hand. He didn't move, watching the scene  
in front of him, seeing the sadness and the acceptance of something  
ending. After a few minutes, the Grandfather looked over at him and  
said something to Dick. They spoke quietly back and forth in Rom.

"He asked me who you are. I told him that you're the man who has  
raised me since my parents were killed. He said that he wants to meet  
you." Bruce walked the two steps to the bed and took the offered hand  
in a warm clasp.

More talk in Rom. "He wants to thank you. He says that I've—turned  
out well and you should be proud. He's glad that I ended up with you.  
He says that you've done more for me than he could have and he's  
grateful. He thinks that my parents would be, too. He wants to know  
if you'll take me back to the States or will you leave me here?" He  
looked at Bruce. "He's afraid that you're going to dump me here."

"Tell him that having you in my home and in my life has been a  
pleasure and I thank him for allowing it. Tell him that if you had  
not been in my home it would be empty and that I love you as though  
you were my own son. Have him understand that you are welcome as long  
as you wish to be there."

After he had translated what Bruce had just said, the Grandfather  
asked Dick a question that seemed to surprise him. There was some  
back and forth between the two with Dick finally conceding to  
whatever the old man seemed to want. He hesitated in his answer,  
stumbled a bit and finally finished speaking, sounding unsure.

"He wants to know if, after he's dead, you'll legally adopt me. He's  
afraid that the other relatives, the American ones, will try to get  
the trust money or do something. He thinks that you will be able to  
fend them off."

Bruce paused, looking at the pale, lined face staring up at him from  
the pillow. "Tell him that if that's what you want, I will. I'll do  
whatever it takes to protect you."

Dick looked at him for a moment, as though assessing what he had just  
said then spoke to his grandfather. The old man's face settled into  
an expression of contentment, as though the last concern he had was  
now lifted. Then he spoke again, something that caused Dick to smile  
and shake his head.

"What?"

"He says that I should think about training for the Olympic Team.  
Either country, he doesn't care. He says that the American team would  
probably be easier to get onto since the Romanians are better  
gymnasts. He thinks that I should win some medals."

More talk from the bed, more answers, and denials, from Dick.

"What now?"

"He says I could be one of the best in the world. I told him that I'm  
not a gymnast; I'm just an acrobat. It's not the same thing. I'm too  
old to start with that training, to do that I would have had to start  
when I was like eight or something."

More talk between the two. "I said maybe." The grandfather smiled at  
him, almost laughed. The two understood each other so well.

Then the old, veined hand moved to Dick's hand where it was resting  
on the edge of the bed drew it up to his lips and kissed his  
grandson's young flesh. "Poshrat, Didikai—Iubirea ca moartea e de  
tare."

Dick nodded and Bruce that, for the first time since he'd arrived,  
since only the second time since he'd known Dick, there were tears  
standing in his eyes. Stubborn, he wouldn't allow them to fall. Still  
holding Papa's hand, he nodded, letting him know that he understood.  
He old eyes closed and he drifted to sleep once again as Dick  
continued to hold his hand.

Bruce stepped out to the hallway, in search of a nurse who might,  
maybe, be able to understand that he would like some food for the  
young man who waited with his grandfather.

Obliging and trying to help the youngster they had taken under their  
wings, a nurse's aide took Bruce to the staff dining room where he  
managed to put together a bowl of soup that he though the boy would  
eat, along with weak tea. He knew, from years of living with Dick,  
that when upset, that was about the only thing his stomach would  
tolerate. Taking a plastic tray, he carried the food into the  
sickroom to find Dick almost as he was when Bruce left. The only  
change was that he was now sitting, the old man's hand still in his  
own. Quietly, he placed the tray on a side table.

"You should eat something."

Nodding, Dick didn't move.

"The doctor was in while you were gone. He thinks that it won't be  
much longer. Probably within the next twenty-four hours."

"But you're here. You know that's making it easier for him." Dick  
just nodded. "Please try to eat. You can't help him if you're weak."

The youngster looked up at him as he stood beside him, nodded again  
and turned his chair so that he faced the tray. Ten minutes later the  
bowl was empty and he was sipping the tea. Without a word, he turned  
back to the figure in the bed.

"Are there any people here who should be contacted? Any relatives or  
friends who would want to know?"

"No, everyone is dead."

"Have you had any sleep? You look like you could use some."

He looked up at the older man, his thoughts as plain as day on his  
face—Bruce worrying about whether or not he'd had enough sleep? Give  
me a friggin break. "I'm fine."

"Dick, perhaps you should…"

"Bruce. Leave me alone." He softened a bit as he looked down at the  
old face in the bed. Papa always wanted him to be kind. "There will  
be things to deal with after. It would be a help if you got that end  
of things straightened out. The house and stuff." He looked up. "OK?"

"Of course. I'll ask the housekeeper if he had a will and take it  
from there."

"Thank you." Bruce left. Now that he had a specific job to do he  
would stop hovering and let him be. Good.

* * *

He returned to the hospital three hours later after managing to  
locate the old man's housekeeper who had somehow conveyed to him that  
there was a will and that she knew that the old man had left  
everything to his only surviving relative, Dick. The estate consisted  
of the small house, an old car and about forty acres of farmland that  
was leased out. The yearly rents brought in the equivalent of about  
one hundred and fifty dollars. There was a local lawyer who had known  
the Grandfather all his life and could see to the settling of the  
estate. He seemed to be honest and would likely handle everything  
just fine.

As he walked onto the floor where the old man's room was located, a  
nurse speaking to him quietly in Romanian stopped him. Shaking his  
head, not understanding her, she finally took his arm and led him to  
the small chapel on the floor below. Dick was there with a man in a  
dark suit and a Roman collar, speaking in Rom. They seemed to finish  
their business as Dick caught sight of Bruce out of the corner of his  
eye. Talking to the priest, Dick was apparently giving some  
explanation as who he was. The priest turned and, murmuring a few  
words in Rom, offered his hand. Bruce shook it and gave a slight  
smile.

"Papa died while you were out. This is Father Gregor from the local  
church. He said that Papa was a member of his congregation and that  
they were friends. He'll conduct the service and will offer a Mass  
everyday this week for him."

The priest said something. "He says that he's glad that you came all  
this way to be with me. He said that Papa was worried about me  
because I don't have anyone now that he'll no longer be able to help  
me when I need it. He told Father that he was glad to finally meet  
you and that he wanted you to know that he was grateful for  
everything that you've done for me."

The priest hesitated, looked at Dick and then back at Bruce as though  
making an assessment about the two of them and them said something  
that caused Dick to stare at him in some surprise. After a moment he  
translated.

"He said that he knows from my grandfather that I have leanings'  
that don't conform to the teachings of the church, but he's never  
held with those beliefs and he says that you should", he seemed to be  
searching for an equivalent word, "That he hopes, and Papa hoped  
that you would allow me to love the person I should be with, no  
matter who they might be." Dick transferred his attention to Bruce's  
face. "He knows that I'm gay because Papa told him last summer when I  
was here. I told him then, Bruce. He seemed to understand. Papa hoped  
that you would be all right with that and that you wouldn't cause any  
problems for me."

"Dick—are you sure that this is what he's actually saying and that's  
what he really means?" Bruce had suspected about Dick's leanings'  
for a while but had never mentioned them anymore than Dick had. Now  
it seemed like an accepted fact that was simply acknowledged.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Choosing his words carefully, Bruce turned to the priest. "Tell him  
that I want what will make you happy and that I won't interfere with  
whatever choice you may make regarding a—partner. I will honor your  
grandfather's wishes."

After Dick translated, the priest looked at Bruce, nodded and shook  
his hand. After saying a few more words to Dick, he left.

"Everything is arranged for. The service and the burial, I mean. I  
guess that I'll go through the house and see if there is anything  
that I want to take back with me. After this is all finished, I was  
planning on just selling everything that's left. Either that or I  
could give it away. Marta has been taking care of him for years and  
she just lives in an apartment. Maybe she would like the house."

Bruce was watching him through this speech, wondering when the boy  
would cry. He was, or at least seemed intent on maintaining his  
composure. But he was still just a child, really. He should have an  
outlet; he shouldn't have to deal with this.

But then, he had dealt with more funerals than people twice his age  
normally had. It wasn't right.

Bruce spoke softly, "Dick, I've taken a room at the guesthouse. Why  
don't you stay there while we sort out things?"

"No. I'll stay at Papa's. I have to make sure that everything is  
taken care of over there." He paused a moment while he thought how  
to phrase his words. "Look, I know you're trying to help and all  
that, and thanks. Really. But I can do this, I'll be fine. Just leave  
me alone for a while, OK?"

"I'll help you clear out the house in the morning. Will you let me  
drive you over there?" Dick nodded.

* * *

The next three days went by fast for Dick and crawled by like a  
couple of months for Bruce. Dick was busy all the time, packing up,  
greeting family friends, dealing with the authorities, paying the  
final bills, giving away the old man's belongings, attending the  
funeral and burial. Never once did anyone see him break down in any  
way.

Bruce watched from a discrete distance, there if asked for or needed,  
but otherwise staying on the sidelines.

Finally the last box was sealed, the house keys had been turned over  
to the housekeeper who would now have her own home and there was  
nothing left to do other than to say the final goodbyes and leave.  
Most of the furnishings of the house had been left right where they  
were, most of the old man's clothing had been packed up for charity,  
the ancient car would revert to the equally ancient housekeeper.  
Papa's dog would have a good home right where he was with Marta and  
all of the legalities had been taken care of.

Standing just inside the front door, Dick turned to hug the old  
woman, her arms around him and the two of them kissing cheeks. She  
was murmuring to him in Rom, obviously telling him that she loved him  
and to not forget her and that he should be careful and come back to  
visit.

Dry-eyed, he was equally obviously saying that he would. Kissing her  
a final time and taking a last look around he managed a smile for  
her, turned to Bruce and with a flat "Let's go" walked down the path  
to the rental car.

They drove in silence to the small local airport where one of the  
Wayne Corp. jets had been waiting to take them home. They went  
through passport control and settled themselves in the oversized  
seats with almost no words exchanged between them. Dick seemed to  
have retreated into his own world, and though he would politely  
answer if directly addressed, he kept silent the entire trip home.  
Finally, Bruce's "Would you like to talk about him? Could I help?"  
Even in his own world, that last comment penetrated through to Dick.  
Bruce asking if he could help? That was a first. He looked across to  
where Bruce was sitting nearby.

"Thanks, but I'm OK."

Bruce just nodded. The boy still hadn't in any real way expressed  
grief. Shock, most likely, but still, he would need to let it out  
sooner or later.

Restless, Bruce got up to wander around the small cabin and finally  
back to the galley to chat with the attendant, asking her about  
lunch. When he returned to his seat fifteen minutes or so later he  
heard Dick's softly spoken end of a phone conversation. It was  
apparent that he was telling someone about his grandfather's death  
and funeral and that he was finally beginning to unburden himself to  
whoever was on the other end of the phone. He was speaking calmly and  
dry eyed, still. He could have been going over his day at school for  
all the emotional content that his voice contained.

Though relieved to hear what was being said, at least on this end,  
Bruce was chagrined to realize that he was jealous of the person Dick  
was telling his problems to. All right, fine, that was inappropriate,  
but it was how he felt. On the significant other hand, he was  
genuinely happy that Dick was willing to talk with someone, even if  
it wasn't him. He didn't like those pricklings at the back of his  
mind, though.

The phone conversation lasted almost two hours. Bruce heard a  
grateful sounding "Yes, I'll see you sometime later today… Thanks, I  
think that I'll finally be able to let down when I can really talk to  
you…Yeah, me, too." As soon as he hung up, he reverted to silence.

Dick pulled a book from his bag, a schoolbook from the look of it and  
began studying about the Ottoman Empire. As the silence spread  
through the cabin again Bruce quietly spoke.

"When I was in you grandfather's room for the last time, he said  
something to you in Rom. I was just curious about what he said, I  
mean if you don't mind."

"Oh that. He said that Love is stronger than death'. I think it's  
from the bible."

"There was something else, he called you by what seemed to be a pet  
name. I was just wondering what he called you."

"Didikai, he used to call me that. And Poshrat. They're Rom for  
someone who's half gypsy. He used to called me those sometimes." He  
turned his face towards the window. The conversation was closed and  
the rest of the trip continued in silence.

The plane landed at JFK and as they started to walk to the car Dick  
matter of factly asked Alfred if he would mind packing some of his  
clothes for him and overnight them to him for the next day, that he  
would rather not go back to the manor quite yet.

Bruce just stared without speaking.

"Where would you like your things sent, Master Dick?"

"I'm taking the shuttle down to DC. Garth said that I could stay with  
him at their embassy for a week or two."

"What is he doing down at their embassy?" That was Bruce asking.

"He says that Arthur has some idea about him eventually taking up  
some kind of position with their foreign service or something. I  
think it's supposed to be on the job training."

"Dick? Are you sure that this is what you want to do now?"

He nodded. "Yeah. We're friends, you know? I can talk to him." The  
implication that he couldn't talk to Bruce was too obvious to even  
mention. "Bruce? Thank you. For going all the way over there. I know  
you were trying to help." He realized what he had just said and how  
it sounded, "I mean, it did help. It was really good of you to be  
there."

"You know that I'm concerned about you."

Dick just nodded, seemingly unsurprised with the stiffness and  
formality.

"I didn't know that you and Garth were so close. I thought that you  
two just worked together and that you found him shy and boring."  
Bruce knew he was making the dig out of pettiness and he felt a  
momentary prick of guilt. After all, if this was whom Dick felt  
comfortable with. That was good. He certainly needed to talk with  
someone.

"I don't know. The last few months we've been hanging out more and  
he's OK. He's really smart, you know? I guess that I thought he was  
shy because he didn't really understand English all that well for a  
long time so he kept quiet. He's a good guy. And he understands about  
not having a family. He doesn't push." He was looking at his feet and  
Bruce noticed that there seemed to be a slight blush coloring his  
cheeks. "We've become pretty good friends."

"I see." Bruce wondered if Dick had mentioned this new development to  
his grandfather.

"Bruce? I don't have anyone left now. Not from my family, not who I  
care about, anyway. Garth and I understand each other." He hesitated,  
seeking approval. "Is that OK?"

Bruce nodded. "You need to handle this however will make it resolve  
for yourself. If Garth can help with that, then well and good."

Nodding, Dick turned to walk over to the shuttle ticket counter.

"Dick?" He turned back. "If you need anything, you'll call?"

"Yeah. I will." He walked back the twenty feet to where Bruce and  
Alfred were standing and put his arms around the taller man, leaning  
up and kissing his cheek. "Bruce? Thank you."

Returning the hug, he nodded, speechless.

After a moment Dick released his hold, looked at Alfred for a second  
with a small smile and walked away to get his ticket.

1/3/03


End file.
